Andrea didn't remember falling asleep.
One moment she was sitting on the floor, back against the door, counting her breaths like a habit she hated needing — and then—
—Atlanta swallowed her whole.
The smell hit first.
Metal. Sweat. Blood.
The room was too bright. White walls. No windows. A single table bolted to the floor.
Her hands were bruised. Knuckles split open. Dried blood under her nails.
"Please," someone sobbed in front of her.
A man. Early twenties. Face swollen. Eyes ruined with fear.
"I told you everything," he cried. "I swear—"
Andrea stood slowly.
Not angry.
Not shaking.
Calm.
"You lied," she said. Her voice was flat, almost bored.
"I didn't—"
She hit him.
Not once.
Not twice.
She stopped only when he slid sideways out of the chair.
Her chest didn't tighten.
Her hands didn't tremble.
She watched him hit the floor like she was observing weather.
Then—
"ANDREA!"
She jerked awake screaming.
The scream ripped out of her like something feral — raw and animal and wrong. Her body surged up before her brain caught up, heart pounding, vision blurred.
Someone was grabbing her shoulders.
She reacted.
Hard.
Her elbow slammed backward into Tom's ribs. He gasped as the air left his lungs. She twisted, shoved him into the wall, her forearm pressing into his throat before she even saw his face.
"Don't touch me!" she snarled.
Tom froze.
"Andrea," he choked, hands raised despite the pain. "It's me. It's Tom."
Her eyes focused.
Real walls.
Real light.
Tom's face — pale, terrified, real.
She released him instantly.
He slid down the wall, coughing, shaking.
"Oh god," she whispered. "Oh god—"
The door flew open.
Bill rushed in first, eyes wild.
"What the hell—"
Gustav followed, already kneeling beside Tom.
"Are you hurt?"
Georg stood in the doorway, taking everything in — the claw marks on Tom's neck, Andrea backed into the corner like she might bolt, the pure horror on her face.
"I didn't mean to," Andrea said, voice breaking for the first time since Berlin. "I thought— I thought—"
She stopped herself.
Her breathing spiraled.
"No," she said suddenly, shaking her head. "No no no—"
She backed away from them.
"Don't come closer."
Tom, still coughing, looked up at her.
"It's okay," he rasped. "You didn't—"
"Yes," she snapped. "I did."
The word cracked.
"I hurt people," she said, pressing her hands to her temples like she could keep the memories inside. "I hurt them because I could. Because it was easier than being scared."
Bill swallowed, eyes glossy.
"Atlanta," he whispered. "That's where you learned this."
She laughed — broken, hysterical.
"Learned?" she echoed. "I became it."
Another flash slammed into her.
A warehouse.
Gunshots outside.
A body at her feet — not breathing.
Her voice — steady — saying, 'Clean it up.'
Andrea dropped to her knees.
Gustav moved instinctively.
"Stop," she begged. "If you touch me right now, I swear I'll—"
He stopped immediately, hands up, voice calm.
"Okay. I won't."
Georg finally spoke.
"You're dissociating," he said quietly. "You're not here."
Her eyes flicked to him.
"I don't deserve to be," she whispered.
Tom forced himself upright, pain forgotten.
"Look at me," he said.
She didn't want to.
"Look at me," he repeated. "You're in Berlin. You're not there anymore."
Tears spilled — hot, furious, unwanted.
"I left bodies behind," she choked. "Not all of them deserved it."
The room went silent.
Bill's hand flew to his mouth.
Gustav closed his eyes.
Georg's jaw tightened.
Tom stepped closer — slowly, visibly — like approaching a wounded animal.
"Then stay," he said. "And let it haunt you here instead of alone."
Andrea collapsed forward, forehead hitting the floor.
Her shoulders shook.
For the first time in two years, she didn't fight it.
Outside, Berlin slept peacefully.
Inside the apartment, something monstrous finally admitted it was tired.